Recently, I have found myself wondering about what it means to be an adult, and whether or not I am being a reasonably successful one. After all, I've only been at it for a few years. While living through college, my wedding, homebuying, and the beginning of puppy parenthood, as well as a work schedule that severely inhibits watching re-runs of "Sabrina the Teenage Witch," I occasionally ask myself where those dreams of winning a Pulitzer, a gold medal, an Oscar, and three Nobel prizes (in one year) went. I intended to be ridiculously successful by the time I finished school, so I wouldn't have to pick a "career"!
With every epiphany of adulthood, a little bit more of my childlike side withers. Not that the husband and paycheck are anything to sneeze at -- but how do you compare them to summer vacation, drama club, and Nickelodeon? Some of those childhood memories are tough to let go, though:
When I realized that every female gymnast in the Summer Olympics was younger than me, it became time to give up my dream of winning a gold medal by way of learning to do something remotely athletic.
When the entire cast of the Disney Channel was suddenly younger than me, and admiring the Jonas brothers felt a little awkward, I had to let go of that lingering wish to be a Movie Surfer and guest-star on Lizzie McGuire.
When I recently discovered that 90% of the contestants on "The Bachelor" were within spitting distance of my age, something gave me a chill -- it was like waking up with my teddy bear after drooling on it in my sleep, leaving it damp and cold on my pillow, instead of comforting and snuggly.
Names like Selena Gomez, Taylor Lautner, Justin Bieber, and Youtube-kid-who-plays-the-piano-and-sings-like-an-even-more-neonatal-Justin-Bieber are constantly mentioned everywhere. The seasoned older generation of entertainers (with the lovely exception of Betty White) seems content to fade into obscurity, hawking memory-foam mattresses and sports bars. Therefore, the average age of famous, successful people seems to be dropping at the very time that my age is rapidly increasing. Don't bother arguing with my logic -- I made a graph:
(Please note that my standards are not overly high. I'm not shooting for JK-Rowling-level fame here, nor am I trying to become more famous than Twilight and Chuck Norris combined. I hope to be slightly more famous than a teenager who can't seem to remember how to wear clothes properly and a chick who stuck a money sign in her name and attempted to rhyme "clothes" with "phones.")
If this trend continues, I will soon pass that critical threshold of finishing school forever, attain multiple degrees in things that are useful but not especially high-profile, and miss my last shot at youthful fame and fortune, resigning myself to things like a "career." "Maturity." "401k." "Metamucil."
The problem is that I am running out of time. How am I ever going to leap from this current bypass-of-fantasticality into that desirable fame lane, especially when my knees seem to be growing more arthritic by the moment?
Well, I thought a lot about it, and a blog seemed like a better/cleaner/safer path towards prominence than reality television, politics, or an escort service. Which are all pretty similar, when you think about it. For the record, however, maintaining a blog of genuine anecdotal humor will require MUCH more effort than any of those other career avenues. So you're welcome. And thank you.